Silent House
by Annber03
Summary: In the midst of all this chaos and upheaval, they're just longing for some stability.


**_A/N: _**_Title is taken from the song of the same name, which has been done by both the Dixie Chicks and Crowded House. Story inspired by the song's lyrics as well. Both versions of the song are excellent and worth a listen on YouTube, if you're so inclined. _

* * *

_"__You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right." – Maya Angelou _

Spencer Reid stared at the bags and boxes before him, mentally running down the contents.

_That bag is trash. This box is books. That box is sweaters. This bag is undergarments._

He straightened, taking a quick look around the room. Completely empty, save for himself and the bags and boxes at his feet. An unreadable expression crossed his face then, but only briefly.

Spencer immediately went to work, stacking a couple boxes at a time and carrying them out to the car, dragging bags and settling them in the trunk. All that remained now was the trash, quickly disposed of by heaving it into a nearby dumpster. Spencer brushed his hands against his slacks, satisfied, before turning back to the house.

He stepped inside, gently shutting the door, beginning his slow trek through the house. One last walkthrough, and he could officially leave.

His first stop was the kitchen. Spencer examined the drawers, the cupboards. No silverware left behind. No fancy plates. The knives had slowly disappeared over the years, the plates having dwindled by way of "slipping" and "breaking".

The table and chairs had long ago been dropped off at a Goodwill type of store. Spencer momentarily wondered if perhaps someone else might eventually buy them. If they'd sit at the table with their child, helping them with their homework. Discuss their favorite books over dinner. Settle in for a cup of warm milk after a nightmare.

He took a quick peek out the window above the sink, smiling as the images floated through his mind like an old film reel. Waving to his mom while he played, as she stood doing dishes. Sitting in the yard with his dad, looking at the constellations. Admiring the flowers in the little pots that sat on the windowsill…

…coming home at midnight, shivering, tired, his eyes red and puffy. Grabbing some water from the refrigerator to ease the dry, raw ache of his voice, only to see his mother standing outside in her nightgown, staring at…something.

Spencer frowned then, shaking his head, and simply continued onward.

Living room next. No more TV, but hell, it might as well have not been there to begin with, for as little as it was used. No ratty old couch, either, with the torn cushion in the middle, and the spot where his mom spilled a drink once. Another shake of the head, a fond smile. The couch had also been donated to the same store as the table and chairs. Spencer wouldn't be surprised if someone dumped it in the trash, though, given its condition.

Did have a comfy blanket draped across the back, at least. He remembered curling up under it whenever he was sick, or after he'd fallen asleep reading, or being read to.

The basket with his mom's knitting yarn that used to sit by the staircase had been dropped off for her last week. Spencer had looked so forward to bringing her that, beaming as he drove, picturing her with a thrilled smile.

She barely showed any response.

Another window, this one looking into the yard, just like the one in the kitchen did. He'd always liked this backyard. It was spacious, open for exploration. He smiled as he glanced at the swing tied to the tree. How many days had he spent sitting on that swing, nose buried in a book?

The best part about this backyard, though? That fire pit wasn't there. Spencer never had liked the pit that was part of the last house he'd lived in, way back when he was a little boy. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, though. The memories were too hazy. He just remembered something about flames, and his dad…

He blinked, taking a deep breath. Yeah. Moving on.

The inspection continued, Spencer checking, double checking, triple checking every nook and cranny all the while. His shoes squeaked softly on the hardwood floor of the hall, making a slight echo – the same sort of echo he'd heard a couple months ago, when he walked this same path. That time, he was flanked by two men, trying (and failing) to prepare himself for the news he had to deliver to his mom. He'd rehearsed his words countless times, had still been mouthing them to himself as he made his way down that hall.

God, he thought that walk would never end.

Of course, all his preparation had been for naught once he'd seen her face. She still gave him _that look_ when he came by with more of her things, too.

Another hall now, through which he'd watched his dad pass for the last time. Spencer had sat at the end of that hallway each night for a full two weeks after his dad left, just waiting. He inevitably dozed off each time, though, always finding himself waking up in his own bed.

_His own bed…_

His room. Spencer lingered against the door frame for a moment as his eyes scanned the area. He noticed the spot at the window where his telescope had sat, where he'd spent many summer nights looking at those same stars his father had introduced him to all those years ago. Spencer walked over to peek outside for a moment, only to wind up shielding his face and turning away from the bright sunlight streaming through instead.

Yes, if Spencer closed his eyes, he could see everything once again. The corner where he'd kept the table on which he spent hours doing science experiments or homework, the spot kitty-corner which once held a massive shelf, stuffed to the brim with books. He looked at the faded carpet signaling the outline of his bed, his safe haven from arguments, bullies, and nightmares, be they his own or his mother's. How many nights had he spent under those blankets, just a flashlight and book keeping him company? Spencer smiled wistfully before continuing his exploration.

Shortly thereafter, he found himself in the last room of the house. His mother's room. Another outline where a bed used to sit. The spot where she read, and read to him, and soothed him after a bad day at school. The spot where she spent days, weeks at a time, as he pleaded with her to do _something_, anything. Where she argued with his dad for the last time, a suitcase settled between them.

There had once been a picture of the three of them on the wall next to the bedroom door. Spencer had no memory of the photo being taken, for he was a baby at the time. But he liked the photo all the same…at least, until the year he turned ten.

The closet door stood open, exposing the emptiness inside. All his mom's shirts and skirts were gone, including the yellow skirt that he'd always particularly liked as a kid – it had reminded him of the sun. The ever growing number of boxes which contained her many journals and lesson plans had been cleared out, too. Just a bare space now.

_…__wait. _

Spencer's eyes narrowed as he quickly strode over to the closet. A journal just barely peeked out from behind the door frame. _Must've fallen out of the box._ He briefly flipped through it, however, just to be sure. Satisfied, he picked it up, taking it along with him as he walked out.

Finally assured that the place was completely empty, Spencer made his way to the front door. He stopped for a moment in the doorway, though, hand on the knob, glancing back inside, eyes carefully examining the place. He didn't feel like he'd _forgotten_ something, exactly…but a similar odd reaction of some sort nagged at his mind anyway.

After a moment, Spencer let out a soft sigh, taking one last look before closing the door behind him. He made a note to call the realtor tomorrow, to make sure everything was squared away with the sale. Another quick check, this time of the car, seeing to it everything was properly secured inside. Spencer stuck the journal inside one of the boxes that seemed to have a bit of open space, and once certain that everything looked good, he finally began his drive towards the Bennington Sanitarium.

This had officially become his least favorite part of the journey. Each visit had become nothing more than a taunt to him. _Look at these people. Look at what you did to her._ _What if you had a kid? Would you want them doing this to you?_

If the day ever came where he _did_ wind up in a place like Bennington, Spencer knew that would be concrete proof of karma's existence.

The fact that his mom always looked downright miserable each time he saw her didn't help matters, either. Not that he would've expected her to be jumping for joy at her new home, mind. But her behavior had gotten to the point where he couldn't tell if it was the result of one of her "bad days", or if she'd just simply fallen into a permanent state of misery and hatred, one from which she might never emerge.

He was supposed to protect her. She'd already felt so abandoned after William had left, and he was the only person she truly trusted, in her more lucid moments, to talk about all the fears she was dealing with. "You're old enough to understand, Spencer," she'd always told him. He'd studied so many articles, read so many books, on mental illness, on schizophrenia, desperate to find any answers. He'd spent many hours debating what information he should tell her. He wanted so badly to give her hope, and yet he didn't want to lure her into false expectations.

Now all he could think of was the accusing look of betrayal in her eyes, the way she'd cried the day she was led away. He'd heard her cry before, of course, but this time _he_ was the reason for her sobs. One of the guards had to come back into the room to try and bring him out of his own breakdown, asking him if he wanted to say goodbye to her, and he'd swore he was suddenly two feet tall.

He never knew what to expect when he came to visit her. When they lived together, he could sense her shifts in mood and prepare himself. Now he had to play guessing games as to what mood she'd be in when he stopped by. Now he had a stark reminder of his worst fears come true, staring him in the face each time.

Spencer mentally kicked himself. _Quit making this about you. She's the one who's suffering. She's the one who had to up and leave against her will, forced into a new place._

This wasn't her true home. He knew it, she knew it. And he knew these visits, and her old things, wouldn't even begin to make up for what he'd done. But there was no question that she needed this. If nothing else, perhaps her personal items, and his visits, might help keep her mind steady, her memories intact, even if only for a little while.

The desolate stretch of road, and the intense thoughts twisting his mind, were starting to make him cross-eyed. Spencer's gaze turned to the sunset off in the distance. On one end, he observed the glowing red sky, the bright round orange ball of light slowly sinking below the horizon. On the other end, the inky blue-black sky was creeping in, taking over. One star twinkled off in the distance, and he could see the faint hint of a half moon.

He didn't bother looking in the rearview mirror.

* * *

She hated it here.

Diana glared as she sat on the edge of her bed, taking stock of her room. She hated the drab walls. They weren't anything like her walls at home. _Those_ were warm shades of brown, blue, white. Homely. Inviting. She slowly began hanging things on the wall in her room over the past month and a half – family photos, pictures of Spencer, a couple little cross-stitches with pleasant sayings on them. But it wasn't the same.

She hated the nurses who constantly pestered her. They weren't Spencer. They didn't spend hours reciting statistics to help keep the voices quiet. They didn't distract her with exciting stories on the days she sat in her room afraid, because she was absolutely _sure_ there was somebody on the grounds outside waiting for her, and the guy in the room down the hall was working with that person, she just _knows_ it! When she woke the other night, screaming, after a nightmare, they came in and tended to her, but they didn't stay the night, holding her hand.

There was a man named Doctor Norman whom she met recently. Him, she liked. He spoke warmly, gently, had an endless amount of patience, and a kind face. He wasn't Spencer, either, though.

Diana hated the assigned mealtimes. How she longed to be back home, cooking her favorite dishes, making breakfast for her son. She kept wanting to pull out the fancy china for their guests. William never thought the china was necessary, but her guests deserved the best.

She also hated sleeping in this strange bed. Not because she slept alone – she'd had many years to get used to that. But this wasn't her room. She never failed to have a momentary freakout when she woke up; she always needed a moment to remind herself where she was.

There wasn't as much space for her clothes now. She had to keep most of them in the boxes that sat in the corner instead. Diana didn't have her special drawer where her letters from Spencer used to sit, either. Those had to sit in a file container now.

Containers, boxes, and bags. That's what her life had been reduced to.

There was a small desk next to the window, where she'd been doing work on her lesson plans, but lately she wondered why she bothered. The people here didn't seem interested in attending lectures.

Diana knew her son thought she hated him, too, for putting her here. She didn't. She didn't understand, and even daring to ask why hurt her to her core. But she didn't hate him. "Hate" was not in her vocabulary, not when it came to Spencer.

She sighed, looking up with a start when she heard the door to her room open.

There stood Spencer, holding a box, looking at her nervously.

"Hi, Mom." His voice was tiny, and Diana's heart broke a little at his wary expression. "I, uh, have the last of your things here." He gently sat the box down next to her chair before straightening and tucking a small strand of hair behind his ear. She'd never been much for his longer hair. Too easy to hide that sweet face of his.

"I'm going to go get the rest of the stuff, okay?" He searched her face, hoping she understood him. She simply smiled, and he quietly backed out of the room.

A few hours later, Diana finally had all her things in her room. Well, the stuff that could fit in there, at least. She watched as Spencer moved about the room, organizing her clothes, her folders, her binders and knick-knacks. She took a few small things and set them by her bed – a couple photos, a small abacus, her newest journal.

By ten-thirty that night, Spencer managed to get most of her stuff unpacked. He stood anxiously in the middle of her room, hands in his pockets.

"Well, I, um…I suppose I should call it a day," he said finally, breaking the heavy silence.

Diana frowned. "Where are you going?"

"I was thinking of staying in a nearby motel for the remainder of the weekend, before heading back for my classes on Monday." He spoke almost flatly, avoiding eye contact almost the entire time he talked to her.

"No. No motels. You're staying here," Diana said firmly, emphatically shaking her head.

Spencer's eyes widened slightly as he raised his head towards her. "R-really? But where – "

"I can ask for a cot," she insisted, waving a hand assuredly.

"Will it be okay with the staff?"

"I'll talk to Doctor Norman about that." _If he's as nice as I think he is, he'll allow it._

She was right, of course, and soon Spencer found himself settled in, lying on his stomach in his new bed. Another silence fell as Diana wrote in her journal while Spencer read a book. It wasn't entirely comfortable, but it was certainly less suffocating than the lengthy quiet bouts from earlier. Spencer's eyes went from his book to his mom every once in a while, studied her, until finally, he worked up enough courage to speak.

"Mom?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes?" Diana set her journal and pen down, giving him her full attention.

"Are you…" He licked his lips. "…are you – all right?" He was sat on the edge of the cot now, his dark eyes curious, worried.

Diana paused for a moment, thinking. "Yes, Spencer. I am." _I will be._ She looked him up and down. "You should get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Spencer opened his mouth as though to protest, but the heavy feeling in his eyes won out instead. "You're right. Good night, Mom." He curled up under the blanket. "I love you," he said softly, giving her one last look before closing his eyes.

"I love you, too. Good night, Spencer."

Diana wasn't ready to go to sleep, however. She waited until she was sure Spencer was completely out before poking at the box next to her chair. Inside were more of her journals, as well as a photo album. That album was her favorite one. She'd become quite familiar with its contents over the years. There were a couple photos of her and Spencer in there she'd always wanted framed. _Something to consider doing someday._

Her eyes fell on the journal at the top of the pile. The number 1986 was scrawled across the front, and she opened it, curious. There were some scribbles, some block of words scratched and blackened out. A bit of the notebook paper had been torn away, and the pages were yellow, the ink faded.

There was one short entry that caught her eye, however. Tears stung her eyes as she read.

**ooo**

_October 9__th__, 1986_

_Spencer is five today. Five! My baby boy is no longer a baby. _

_He got a telescope today, courtesy of myself and his dad. If I know my son, he's still up, playing with it. It's wonderful to be able to live in a house that has good windows for proper nature observation. The old house didn't have that. Too many bad things to see there. My son deserves to see all the beauty the world has to offer._

_Time to go get Spencer ready for bed. I can't wait for him to tell me what he's discovered._

**ooo**

Diana's gaze immediately turned to the sleeping form on the cot by the window, and a soft smile graced her face. Her son was now on his left side, one arm dangling off the bed, another draped across his stomach. His book had been knocked to the floor, set in a triangular form. A curl of dark hair fell in front of his eyes.

_He's eighteen now._ A proper adult in the eyes of the law. She shook her head. _Still my baby boy._

Pulling the blankets back, Diana stood, wiping her eyes and briefly smoothing out her yellow skirt. She tiptoed over, picking up the book and setting it on the windowsill as she brushed Spencer's hair aside, placing a kiss atop his head. A brief check of the night light next to the cot, a quick change of clothes, and a short time later, she, too, finally fell asleep.

_Maybe tomorrow we can read stories together. _

* * *

_As always, reviews/critiques/etc. appreciated._


End file.
